


Just a Different Beginning

by Silver_Sylph



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Autoimmune disease, But why would that change him?, Multiple Sclerosis, One Shot, Sherlock-centric, Short One Shot, pre-John, young adult Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 19:09:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15780282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silver_Sylph/pseuds/Silver_Sylph
Summary: Early 20s Sherlock is diagnosed with MS, but he finds that life goes on.





	Just a Different Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: a single curse word is used. I figured since I rated this general, I should give a heads up.

Getting to the rehab center ended up being the easy bit. Leaving under his own power might be a bit harder than it first seemed, Sherlock found. Even an intellect such as his could not plan for every possible health related eventuality. It was hard to plan a quick discharge when one had minimal communication with one’s own leg muscles. Still, at least the doctors said that stress had triggered this MS episode, not the drugs. Mycroft would never let him live it down if it had been because of the drugs. Funny too that one’s parents only told one after they were diagnosed that you have a great great something who had multiple sclerosis too. Oh well.

Good thing they caught it early, although the medication might be a pain. The rehab center had recommended - when consulted by his parents, damn and bless them, that he not do injections, and he immune system treatments did not sound appealing yet, so that left pills. Pills that needed to be taken with food. Protein, specifically. ARGH! If his transport had to attach itself, why did it not do something that could be solved without slowing him down through digestion!

After Sherlock was released from the hospital, his parents took him home, much to his annoyance. But after a week of frustratingly slow improvement with physical therapy, Sherlock had to admit it made sense. He did need someone there to help wrangle his uncooperative foot into his shoe, to make sure his didn't fall in the bath, and to care things for him while he pushed around his walker.  Slowly, Sherlock made progress.  By the end of a month of therapy, the majority of his leg control was back, and his balance had returned. It seemed just a matter of stamina. The day his physical therapist decided he could handle just a crutch, Sherlock was ecstatic.  Maybe his parents would stop hovering as he puttered through the house.  But he was bored. His parents had tried their best to keep him entertained, but that only went so far. Yes, it was incredibly luck they had caught it so quickly, and yes it was wonderful he was stable, and yes he was pleased that with medication he might never have another flare up, but he just wanted to get on with things! So with clearance from his physical therapist, Sherlock moved back to London. 

 

 

 

 

He had to content himself with a ground floor apartment for the moment, but it was his. He remembered that detective had told him he could come back once he was clean - what’s his name, Lestrade, probably - and now he was. So Sherlock took a cab to New Scotland Yard. Once there, Sherlock found, and then waited in, Lestrade’s office. When Lestrade finally arrived, he was quite shocked to see the young man sitting behind his desk like he owned it. 

“Sherlock Holmes,” said Sherlock, extending his hand. “I’m the one who barged onto your crime scene and solved it for you.”

”Right. I said we could talk once you were clean. You are, now, yeah?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t waste your time, detective inspector.”

He stood, making his way around the desk to stand in front of Lestrade. Sherlock pulled a card out of his coat pocket and offered it to the other man. 

“My number, since you will need my consulting ability.”

”Right,” Lestrade said, again. “I’ll just give you a ring then.”

With a nod and a murmured “Good day,” Sherlock was out the door. 

Lestrade stood still in shock for a moment before looking down at the paper in his hand.  Sherlock Holmes, it read, consulting detective, followed by a number.  Lestrade pulled out his mobile and created a new contact, entering the name and number. Just in case.

 

 

 

 The first time he couldn’t caught a criminal because his leg just couldn’t keep running was more mentally than physically painful for Sherlock. It was frustrating that his mind was as sharp as ever, but his body betrayed him. He couldn’t blame it on digestion - as he had found the perfect ratio of protein powder and protein shakes and solid, normal protein, to be able to take his medication on time with minimal flushing - but his physical progress remained “slow and steady,” as his mother would say. Fuck that. 

At eight months (and one MRI with no sign of change), Sherlock once again took off after an escaping suspect, but this time, he caught him! Flushed from his triumph, and not his meds (for once!), Sherlock could not contain his triumphant grin. He had done it! He was back! He was actually happy to give a statement (for once!) and tell the officer _he_ had chased down the suspect and tackled him.  Him! Sherlock Holmes! Had out run someone!  Yes, that's S as in saliva, H as in husband, you know, the one that is cheating on you, E as in Emily, which could be the first letter of her name, R as in rose, the flowers he buys you out of guilt.  Oh, you don't want more phonetic spelling? Well, you better hope you spell it right, Mrs. Married-Four-Years-To-A-Cheater.

 

 

 

 

At his check up, a year and a half after it all started, Sherlock’s doctor officially declared his muscles had returned to his pre-MS episode conditions (although privately Sherlock thought he was in better shape than ever - there was something to this eating lark after all, and determined, regular exercise helped too).  There was no change in his MRI either, thank goodness.  It felt like an age ago when he had first been in that miserable hospital bed, contemplating the premature death of his consulting detective career, and yet here he was. Back to normal. Well, normal plus medication and caution, minus drugs. Life could just go on. 

 

When, five years later, a certain ex-army doctor moved into 221B (up a flight of stairs, stairs!), he was surprised by many things about his new flat mate. But perhaps the most harmless was how quickly and efficiently Sherlock could prepare and consume protein shakes, eggs, and the occasional pork roast. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this. The idea came to me around midnight, and I just had to write this.  
> It’s not betaed, so fell free to let me know if you find any mistakes. :)


End file.
